We Never Speak Their Names. 97 



and get out of the room. Shut the door behind you and 

 seal it up ail round, key-hole and all. Let it alone now 

 for three or four hours. Better say four. 



Pasting- it up with molasses helps you to strip off the 

 paper and wash it off afterward. Flour paste leaves the 

 place looking like distraction. You will have a terrible 

 time getting to the window and raising it to let the fumes 

 out. Sandow couldn't raise it with the papers stuck on 

 it. Take a case knife and cut them through. It will 

 make your eyes smart and you will cough for hours 

 afterward, but even if you do tear off a yard or so of 

 your lungs, think what it does to the B flats. 



When the air clears enough to let you go in and look, 

 you will be astonished. It is Martinique over again with- 

 out the ashes, and you will find them in windrows, where 

 they died gasping for breath. You have no idea how 

 man}' there are. That little place in the mattress that you 

 soaked with kerosene and death's-head stuff- -why, they 

 came boiling out of there in frantic haste, barking and 

 snorting and rubbing their eyes, only to fall over with a 

 grunt. You yourself will go to sleep coughing for a week, 

 but you will not dream of mosquitoes. It is worth the 

 coughing, for it means freedom forever, and if you want to 

 make freedom absolutely certain repeat the operation in 

 a fortnight. But a good big lot of sulphur and a room 

 well-sealed does the trick. Also, if there happens to be 

 a dear little mouse in there, you need never set the trap 

 for him again. (Now don't you go and tell everybody 

 that this is my own personal experience. I wouldn't have 

 it get around for the world that there ever was such a thing 

 in /;;y house. Just make out that you thought it all out 

 for yourself. You knew it was good for scarlet-fever 

 germs and diphtheria-bacilli and such, and, thinks you, 



Why wouldn't that do for you know what ? ' So 



